The Cohen Gang Plus One
by chazper
Summary: Written for the OC Advent Challenge. The Cohens Plus 1 run into problems on their way to a wedding. All characters, including the car, borrowed from Schwartz & Company. The longoverdue sequel: Cabin Fever
1. Chapter 1

Here's the prompt:

**stain, tomato, rain, shadows**, **lurch**, lime jello, with an added bonus

for working in **danglies**.

**The Cohen Gang (Plus One)**

Seth leaned forward as much as his seat belt would allow and tapped his mother on the shoulder. "So Mom, have I mentioned lately how thrilled I am that you invited me and Ryan to come along to your friend's wedding?" he asked brightly. "Of course, by thrilled you do understand that I mean miserable beyond belief, and by invited I mean dragged, threatened, and otherwise coerced. And I'm sure Mr. Taciturn there agrees, don't you, Ryan?"

Turning from the window, where he had been staring mesmerized at the raging snowstorm outside, Ryan blinked and raised his hands in denial.

"Seth," Kirsten objected absently, without turning around, "nobody dragged you. I just thought it would be nice for us all to attend Blair's wedding as a family. She hasn't seen you since you were a baby. And she's never seen Ryan at all."

"And that, mother, is why we have a little something I like to call the pho-to-graph."

Sandy flashed an admonishing glare back from the driver's seat. "Seth," he reproved, tight-lipped, before fixing his attention back to the road.

Seth widened his eyes innocently. "Hey, I'm just saying."

"The weather forecast only called for light rain in the mountains," Kirsten recalled worriedly. "Who knew it would turn into--"

"A Donner Party style blizzard?"

"Seth!" Sandy and Ryan exclaimed at the same time.

Ryan poked an elbow hard into Seth's side. "Think, man," he muttered. "Cannibal jokes? Really not so funny."

Seth squirmed away, pouting. "Apparently some people lose their senses of humor when they're trapped in a car for five hours in a blinding snowstorm with no food and no water—which by the way, may actually be a blessing because also? No bathroom," he complained.

"Sweetheart, I just remembered why we stopped taking long drives with Seth," Sandy declared. "He learned how to talk."

Ryan snorted in amusement, but Kirsten sighed worriedly, rubbing the end of her scarf across the frosted windshield. "I don't know, Sandy," she murmured, peering into the wind-whipped shadows outside. "Maybe we should just try to find someplace and stop for the night—"

Her last word ascended into a shocked cry as the Rover skidded sideways, fishtailed three times and finally lurched to a halt on an angle halfway off the road.

For one long moment, only ragged breathing broke the tense silence in the car. Then Seth's shaky voice emerged from the backseat. "Okay, Dad," he stammered, "definite points for taking Mom's suggestion, but I don't think she meant for you to stop right here. Or, you know, quite so dramatically."

Sandy swiveled around. "Is everyone all right?" he demanded. "Kirsten? Boys?"

"I'm all right," Kirsten answered. "Ryan? Seth? Are either of you hurt?"

"All body parts accounted for," Seth reported. "At least I think so. Let me see . . . yep, all of them, danglies included. And everything appears to be in working order. I'll just run a systems check." He bobbed his head, wiggled his fingers, and stamped each foot in turn.

"Ow!" Ryan groaned. Kirsten gasped, frantically starting to reach for him around her seat, and he clarified hastily, "It's nothing. I'm fine. Seth just kicked me, that's all."

"That was you? Oops, sorry, dude." Seth grinned weakly into the darkness and retreated against the door, in case Ryan decided to retaliate.

"Yeah it was. And Seth—don't even think about system-checking your--"

"Hey!" Seth yelped. "Watch the language there, dude. Remember? 'Rents in the car?"

"You're the one who said . . . danglies," Ryan growled.

Seth dimpled. "And now you did," he pointed out. "But hey, it broke the tension, right?"

Sandy exhaled ruefully and turned back to the steering wheel. "Obviously, the boys are both okay, Kirsten," he said, with a grateful smile. "Seat belts still on, everybody? Let me see if we can just drive out of here." He turned the key in the ignition. There was a click and a sputtering hum, and then nothing. Sandy tried again. This time the car didn't respond at all.

"Oh God," Kirsten whispered.

Sandy unfastened his seat belt and scooted over to give Kirsten a quick, reassuring kiss. "Sweetheart, nobody's hurt. That's the important thing. I'll go and see what the damage is. Just stay calm and don't move." The minute he reached for his door handle, Ryan did too. "Ryan! I mean it," Sandy insisted. "I'll take care of this."

"Yeah, I know," Ryan objected, fumbling for words that wouldn't sound insulting. "But Sandy, do you, well, know anything about cars?"

"He knows this is a Range Rover. And I've seen him pop the hood," Seth recalled helpfully. "True, he was actually trying to open the gas cap, but still . . ."

Sandy pointed a warning finger at his son. "You, funny man, be quiet," he ordered, adding to Ryan, "And you, stay inside. If I need you, I'll let you know."

"If you say so," Ryan agreed doubtfully.

Holding his coat collar closed against the stiff wind, Sandy stepped out and slogged gingerly through the snow to the front of the car. Even Kirsten, sitting in the front seat, could barely see him as he bent down to check the tires, but everyone in the car heard the thump and the muffled cry.

Immediately Ryan flung his door open and plunged outside. Seth and Kirsten were about to follow when Sandy reappeared, snow-covered and supporting himself against the hood. Ryan helped him into the driver's seat. He stood for a moment, shielding his eyes and staring into the whiteout, before he slid back into the car, shutting the door against the bitter air.

"Ice under the snow," Sandy explained, panting slightly. "No harm done. I lost my footing, that's all. Well, that and my dignity."

Seth brushed snow off his father's shoulders, grinning. "Don't worry, Dad. It's not like we'll ever notice."

"Gee, thanks, son," Sandy replied wryly. "Remind me when we get home to cut you out of the will. . . So, the tires seem to be wedged tight, and we're actually at a fairly steep angle. Even if I can get the engine running—or if Ryan can—I don't think we're going to be going anywhere for a while. And in this storm, help isn't likely to reach us very soon either."

Kirsten shook her head, covering her face with her hands. "I'm so sorry," she moaned. "I thought since the wedding wasn't that far away, it would be fun to drive. And now we're stranded here."

"Yeah, except Mom? I'm not sure there's a 'here' here," Seth observed. "How long since we've seen any signs of civilization? The last pizza place was like, thirty miles ago. Not that we stopped there or anything even though some of us wanted to . . ."

"You're not helping, man," Ryan muttered, but Seth's eyes were closed dreamily and he was chanting, "Mmm, thin, crispy crust, creamy cheese, tangy tomato sauce, thick slices of spicy pepperoni . . ."

Ryan's stomach rumbled. "Really, **really** not helping."

Sighing, Seth nodded in agreement. "Sadly, you're right, dude. The whole visualization thing? Actually just makes you hungrier. So to recap, we're basically lost somewhere in the mountains. In a blizzard. In a dead car. I'm guessing no cell phone reception either, right?"

Immediately, Sandy, Kirsten and Ryan all checked their phones, looking slightly abashed not to have done it sooner.

"No signal," Sandy reported.

"Then it's definite. We're on our own. So what's the GP, RA?"

"What's the . . .? Sandy, what is your son talking about?" Kirsten demanded.

Sandy shrugged. "I don't know, sweetheart. Maybe he hit his head and he's delirious. With Seth, it's hard to tell."

"GP. Game plan," Ryan explained vaguely, squinting out his window through the shifting winds. "I'm the RA . . . Sandy? I think I saw a shape out there—a house or a cabin or something. Maybe there's someplace where we can take shelter. Why don't I check it out?"

"Better question: why don't I?" Sandy countered.

"Um . . . because you already fell once? And, you know . . ."

"He means you're older, Dad," Seth concluded blithely. "If you break your leg, you won't heal as fast . . . Hey, why do I get that furious-father look? Ryan's the one who said it."

Ryan blew out an exasperated breath. "Yeah. Except no, I didn't, Seth. Sandy, we have a flashlight in the emergency kit, don't we?"

"We have a couple, and there should be a highway flare," Sandy confirmed. "But Ryan, I don't like the idea of you going out there alone. Tell you what. Seth, you set up the flare and stay here with your mother. I'll go with Ryan." Kirsten opened her mouth to veto the entire idea, but Sandy forestalled her. "Honey, if we can find shelter, we should. Don't worry. We'll just check the area nearby, and I'll make sure we keep the flare in sight so we can find our way back."

While he was speaking, Ryan had already scrambled to the back and retrieved the emergency kit. He pulled out the flashlights and handed one to Sandy while he whispered to Kirsten, "It'll be okay. I'll look after Sandy for you, I promise."

Fifteen minutes later, Seth huddled on the edge of his seat, drumming his fingers on his knees. "Not much of a fireworks show, is it, Mom?" he asked, nodding at the stuttering light of the flare in front of the car. "Personally, I'd like a little more color. Maybe some shooting stars, a pinwheel or two, a modest aurora borealis effect . . ."

"Do you see them?" Kirsten asked desperately. "They promised not to go far--"

As if on cue, a shape stumbled into view, and Ryan yanked open the car door and tumbled inside. He was covered with snow, which he promptly shook over Seth, smirking as Seth flailed his arms to protect himself.

"Thank God," Kirsten breathed, before she looked past Ryan and added, "Where's Sandy?"

"We found the cabin," Ryan explained. "It's actually pretty close. Deserted, though. Sandy is waiting there, so he can use his flashlight to guide us back. Everybody ready?" He climbed back out of the car, calling back, "Seth, grab any stuff from the emergency kit that we can use—the blanket, the energy bars, maybe the first aid kit just in case." Ryan stopped, looking doubtfully at Kirsten's feet as he opened the door for her. "You can't walk like that," he objected.

"What?"

Ryan gestured to her shoes, with their thin straps and open toes. "Your feet will freeze in the snow, Kirsten. Seth, get over here. We've got to carry your Mom."

Struggling to juggle the emergency supplies along with his other essentials—CDs, Gameboy, and four comic books--Seth stared at Ryan incredulously. "Right, and we'll what now?"

"Carry your Mom."

"Ryan, that's not necessary," Kirsten protested. "You said it's not far."

"It's too far for those shoes. Seth--"

Seth dumped what he was carrying back in the car and trudged around to join Ryan, shivering. "Okay, it pains me to say this, but Ryan's right, Mom," he admitted, examining her footwear. "Only, dude, how are we going to manage this?"

"We make a chair out of our arms," Ryan said tersely. "One minute though."

While Seth tried out different formations, crossing and uncrossing his arms, clasping his own elbows and wrists, Ryan ducked into the back seat. He dumped everything out of his duffle bag, snatching a couple pairs of socks.

"Take off your shoes and put these on," he urged Kirsten. "Both pairs. They'll be warmer than what you're wearing anyway. And, um, they're clean, I swear."

Kirsten shook her head fondly, then pulled Ryan's face down to her, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Thanks, sweetie," she whispered. Swiftly toeing off her shoes, she pulled on the socks and wrapped her scarf tightly around her head. "Ready."

Seth, his arms twisted pretzel-fashion, sidled close to the car door. "Okay, Ryan," he said, his teeth chattering, "I've been known to produce excellent shadow bunnies on a wall, but I really don't think I can make a chair."

"We do it together," Ryan explained. He tied the solar blanket into a makeshift cape around Kirsten's shoulders and slung his duffle bag, stuffed with the rest of the emergency supplies, over his back. Extending his arms, he waited for Seth to do the same, then grasped his elbows tightly. Kirsten slid onto the improvised seat, looping an arm around each boy's neck and clutching the flashlight in her right hand. As soon as she was in place, Ryan kicked the car door closed behind them and he and Seth began to labor through the snow.

"The good thing about this," Kirsten yelled through the wind, "is that I get to hold on to both of you! I like knowing exactly where you are."

"The bad thing about this," Seth bellowed back, "is that you're squeezing me so tight I can't breathe!"

Ryan threw back his head to fling off the end of Kirsten's scarf that had blown into his mouth. "Seth if you can talk, you can breathe! But here's an idea. Don't talk!"

"Talking," Seth huffed, "is how I deal with disaster."

"Just disaster?"

"Okay, yeah, pretty much everything else too." Seth lapsed into silence for six arduous steps. Then he burst out, "Mom, no offense, but seriously, for someone so tiny, you weigh, like, a lot. How far did you say this cabin was, Ryan?"

"Just . . . up . . . ahead," Ryan gritted. "Keep moving, Seth. See the light waving? That's Sandy."

"Yeah, only no, the crash must have made you delusional, dude. I don't see a light. Wait! Do I? I think . . . Yes, I do! Hallelujah, and thank you Jesus and Moses, we're saved!"

Seth attempted an aborted victory hop that only served to kick up a spray of snow as he and Ryan trudged the last forty yards. Sandy waded out to meet them, scooping Kirsten into his arms and carrying her through the cabin door.

"Aw, it's just like our honeymoon, sweetheart," he grinned as he deposited his wife on the couch and dropped a kiss on her icy forehead. Behind him, Seth and Ryan collapsed against the wall, exhausted. Sandy glanced back at them, then surveyed Kirsten's wind-chapped face, the strange athletic socks on her feet, and the snow-caked blanket tied around her shoulders. "Okay, well, maybe it's a little different," he amended. "Guys, you both okay?"

"Fine," Ryan panted, dropping the duffle bag and starting to unpack.

Seth held up a hand, bent over, and sucked in a few wheezing breaths. "Will be," he gasped. "When I regain . . . use of arms . . . recover from . . . lugging two-ton Tessie over there. Good thing . . . I'm a man of . . . much muscle."

Ryan squinted at Seth skeptically. "And that muscle would be where exactly?" he demanded.

Flexing his arms, Seth replied with affronted dignity, "It would be . . . all right, maybe not there. It would be . . . yeah, probably not there either. Okay, you know what, Ryan? The mind is totally a muscle."

"So you carried your mom with your mind? Well, I guess that would explain why it was so hard for you."

"Hey!" Seth protested. "How about a little grace under pressure here, Ryan? Because that? Was a really rude comment. Now since we're in a code red situation here, I'm going to let it pass. This time. But consider yourself officially warned."

"Got it," Ryan drawled. "I'll be on my best behavior so you don't beat me up with your brain."

"You mock, but you know, dude, I so could."

Ryan rolled his eyes. "Right."

Chuckling, Sandy wedged himself next to Kirsten and began to rub her hands, warming them between his. "All right, fight nice, boys," he urged. "Isn't it wonderful, sweetheart? The kids are enjoying this adventure."

"They do seem to be, don't they?" Kirsten agreed. "And they were very chivalrous, carrying me here. I bet they're glad now that we brought them along."

"Yeah, only Mom, really? Not so much." Seth shrugged off his jacket, dropping it onto a chair. Instantly he snatched it back and pulled it on again. "Dad!" he exclaimed, his voice muffled by the collar he tried to pull over his face. "While you were waiting for us, couldn't you have, I don't know, maybe turned on the heat?"

"No heat," Sandy explained. "No power, no phone, no running water. We do, however, have a roof, plenty of blankets—a little moth-eaten, but good and thick—and a fireplace. There's even some wood stacked just inside the back door. Now that you're all here safe, we'll get a fire going."

"Yes, fire. Fire good," Seth agreed, his teeth clicking against each other.

"You know, Seth, your dad's talking about making a fire, not discovering it," Ryan pointed out. "You don't have go all cave man on us."

Seth stamped his feet and blew into his cupped hands. "Not cave man. Cold," he grunted.

Ryan grinned. "Come to think of it, I like Neanderthal Seth. Less wordy. Sandy, I'll bring in the wood and get the fire going.

"Thanks, kid."

"Suck up," Seth muttered, before he turned to his parents, smiling brightly. "Anything you folks want me to do? Preferably something that doesn't involve going outside?"

"Well, sweetie, since you were the one who kept talking about food, why don't you check the kitchen, see if there's anything we can use to make some dinner?" Kirsten suggested.

Seth nodded agreement, then stopped in alarm. "Okay, hold it a minute. When you say 'we can use', you're not including yourself, are you, Mom?"

"Ooh. First you insult my weight and now my cooking?" Kirsten managed to make a tiny snowball out of clumps tracked onto the floor and lobbed it at Seth, laughing.

"Just see if you can find any food, son," Sandy ordered.

Pulling an afghan off the back of a chair, Seth shrouded himself in it. "Right, but just let me make sure I've got this straight," he mumbled from behind the smothering fabric. "My father, Mr. Morality, is telling me to steal? Well then again, why not one more crime? Obviously, we're already guilty of breaking and entering here. God, it's like we're the Cohen gang. Plus one, I mean."

"We did not break in, Seth," Sandy retorted. "There was a key over the window frame. And I fully intend to pay for everything we use while we're here."

"Key over the window frame," Seth repeated incredulously as he left. "So why even bother locking the door?" A moment later he slunk back in, noting sheepishly, "Oops. Yeah, so that was the bathroom," before he exited the other way.

By the time Seth reappeared, Kirsten and Sandy had created nests on the chairs and couch with all the pillows and blankets that they could find, and Ryan was kneeling in front of the fireplace, arranging the wood.

"Well, we've been busy little beavers, haven't we? Or, I don't know, considering the weather, maybe polar bears," Seth observed, dropping the box of supplies he was carrying on an end table, and inspecting Ryan's work with avid interest. "So what's the next step, dude? Are you going to rub two sticks together? 'Cause my money says it takes at least two dozen tries for you to get a fire going."

Ryan produced a lighter from his pocket, touched the flame to a twist of newspaper, and held it against some small sticks until they started to spark. "One try," he declared. "Pay up, Seth."

"Whoa! That was not two sticks, my friend."

"Maybe not. But I got a fire going, didn't I?"

"Boys," Kirsten interjected, "remember, fight nice. Ryan, sweetie, carrying a lighter . . . that doesn't mean you still smoke, do you?"

Flushing, Ryan stuffed the lighter back in his pocket. "No," he muttered.

"Really no?"

"Really not for a long time," Ryan amended. Before Kirsten could ask any more questions, he changed the subject. "So what did you find for dinner, Seth?"

"Ah, dinner!" Seth announced dramatically. "We are going to feast tonight, lady and gentlemen. For your dining pleasure, we have--" He picked up cans from the box, waving each one with a flourish. "Chili beans! And . . . beans again! And for the next course . . . why yes, that would be beans! And what's this? Wait for it now . . . ha! It's corn! Fooled you. We also have a jar of black olives, one of tomato paste . . . which is something I hope somebody will explain to me, because tomato plus paste? Sound totally weird. Anyway, to round out our meal the kitchen is proud to present . . . two giant chocolate bars, a box one-quarter full of pancake mix and for dessert . . .! Drum roll, please! A package of lime Jell-O, which hey, we don't even have to mix, since it's pre-sweetened and yummy right out of the box!"

"Seth Ezekiel, we are not eating Jell-O powder out of the box!"

Seth's face fell. "Why not, Mom? It's like pixy-stix."

"He eats it that way all the time, Kirsten," Ryan whispered. "Haven't you wondered why he keeps asking you to buy Jell-O, but we never make any?"

"Traitor!" Seth hissed, clutching the box to his chest protectively. "Anyway, I don't see the problem. My way of serving it is less work."

"Your way of serving it gives people green tongues."

Sandy got up and rubbed his hands together. "All right!" he exclaimed, putting the cans back in the box. "The chef—that's me, by the way—will decide how the Jell-O will be prepared. Boys, to the kitchen. Kirsten, keep the home fire—or the fire away from home—burning. It's time to make some dinner, eat, and hunker down for the duration."

"Dude?" Seth demanded, as he and Ryan trailed Sandy out of the room. "Did Dad just say 'hunker'? 'Cause if he did, this is gonna be a very long night."

FIN (or TBC, I'm not sure.)


	2. Chapter 2: Cabin Fever

**Cabin Fever: A Cohen Gang Plus One Sequel**

"Ahh," Sandy sighed contentedly, pushing away his dish. "Now that's what I call a satisfying meal. Sometimes there's nothing like good, simple food."

Dragging his fork through a hill of half-congealed beans, Seth wrinkled his nose. "Huh," he observed. "Can't argue with that, Dad. This was nothing like good, simple food."

Ryan choked on his mouthful of pancake. "Sorry, Sandy," he mumbled, trying to swallow laughter and food simultaneously. "The food is really, um . . . hearty. And . . . filling."

"Yes, it is," Kirsten agreed. She dropped a napkin artfully over her plate, covering the considerable amount that remained uneaten. "You did a fine job with what was available, sweetheart. My compliments to the chef." Leaning over, she rubbed a drop of sauce off Sandy's lip, following the gesture with a kiss.

Seth groaned. "Okay guys, that? Does not help the situation at all."

"It helps mine," Sandy grinned. He tucked the blanket they shared tighter around Kirsten's shoulders and settled her comfortably against his chest. "Look, son, the food may be a little bland--"

"Gee, Dad. You think?"

"But I couldn't find any spices. And you know the old saying: hunger is the best seasoning."

"Yeah? Who originated that one? A survivor of the Donner party?"

"Seth!" three voices chorused in irate unison.

Sandy's eyebrows bristled menacingly. "I'm warning you, son," he growled, waving his fork. "No more cannibal jokes. Capisce?"

Seth dove underneath his afghan. "Oops," he said weakly, peeking out from a fold. "Yeah, that comment was pretty tasteless—no pun intended—but uh, anyway. I just meant that personally I think dinner could have used a little tobacco--"

"Tabasco," Ryan corrected.

"See, Ryan agrees with me."

"No—well, actually, some Tabasco would have helped. But that's not what you said, Seth."

"Dude, it totally is."

Ryan began stacking plates and utensils. "Nope," he argued blithely. "You must prefer beans with that fire-smoked nicotine flavor. You said tobacco."

"I didn't!" Seth argued. He looked at Kirsten for support, but she simply smiled and shook her head. "Okay, fine," he pouted, "but if I did, it's only because my tongue is still frozen and can't form words properly. See, Dad, little hint. When you call a dish chili? It's supposed to refer to the flavor, not the temperature of the food."

Sandy brandished his fork again. "It was hot when I served it, son," he pointed out. "If you had eaten it then instead of using it to create a miniature Stonehenge--"

"That was not Stonehenge, Dad! For your information, that was my homage to Stephen Spielberg's early classic **_Close Encounters of the Third_**--" Seth broke off, sputtering, as Ryan grabbed his elbow and brusquely hauled him to his feet.

"Let's go," he ordered, thrusting the dirty dishes into Seth's hands. "It's clean-up time."

"Oh . . . kay," Seth said warily. "And that means what exactly?"

"You, me. Kitchen. Now."

Ryan grabbed the serving pan from the hearth, put a hand on Seth's back, and began pushing him out of the room.

"Both of us?" Seth protested, stalling. "You haven't thought this through, Ryan."

"Let me see. The dishes are dirty. They need to be washed. It's not exactly rocket science."

Ryan exerted more pressure and Seth stumbled toward the doorway.

"Seriously, dude," he hissed over his shoulder, "one of us should stay here with the 'rents. Otherwise . . ." he paused, inclining his head meaningfully toward his parents. "Think about it: Pillows, blankets, candlelight, a primal need to generate body heat . . . Imagine what could happen."

"I'm imagining it right now," Sandy murmured, wagging his eyebrows and tipping Kirsten's face up so that he could kiss her.

Seth shuddered. "See!" he exclaimed. "If we leave mom and dad alone, they'll . . . don't make me say it. We might not be able to come back in the room. Which we definitely want to do, Ryan, because the fire is here, and hello? Fire? Warmth? Survival? I'm just sayin'."

"Hmm." Narrowing his eyes, Ryan glanced back at Kirsten and Sandy. One corner of his mouth lifted slyly. "You know what? I think you're right, Seth. I better stay here to chaperone. Doing dishes is a one-man job anyway."

"Wait! What?" Seth yelped over the sound of his parents' laughter. "But Ryan, it's freezing in the kitchen. And you know, I'm descended from desert people. We don't do well in the cold. Our blood is too thick. Or thin. Or something."

"Guess that means that you'll hurry then, right?" With a wicked grin, Ryan added his pan to Seth's unwieldy stack and sat down, hitching his chair closer to the fire. Sandy tossed him a blanket and he burrowed into it, exhaling a deep, satisfied "Ahhh."

Seth shuffled in place trying to balance both the dishes and the afghan wrapped sari-style around him. "But you know, Ryan, we can't wash anyway," he observed hopefully. "Remember? No running water. So I'll just put these in the sink--"

"We drank water, son," Sandy reminded him. "Where do you think that came from?"

With horrified comprehension, Seth peered at the murky, frosted windows. "You want me to go outside and get snow? Where it's all dark and windy and cold and did I mention snowing?"

"Yep. But remember now, nothing yellow," Ryan cautioned.

Seth snorted. "Well, no sh--" Kirsten arched her brows and he amended hastily, "I mean, duh, dude. Of course nothing yell . . . Whoa. Wait just one minute. Why would there be any yellow snow outside? There aren't any like, animals around here, right?"

"Probably not." Sandy waved in cavalier dismissal and then immediately plunged his hand under the blanket again. "Not in this weather anyway."

"Right," Ryan agreed, squinting pensively. "And the abominable snowman? I'm sure that's a myth."

Sandy's lips quirked. "Ah yes, the mysterious Yeti," he mused. "Huge, blood-thirsty, hairy . . . Actually, around here I think the proper term is Bigfoot, or maybe Sasquatch. You know, Ryan, that's a fun word. Not yogalates, but still . . . sasquatch, sasquatch. . ."

"Sasquatch," Ryan intoned wickedly, as Seth whimpered, "Mom?"

"Sandy! Ryan! Stop teasing him," Kirsten admonished. "Seth, sweetie, ignore them. Just do the best you can with the dishes and hurry back. I have a surprise. Something for dessert—and no, not lime Jell-O either."

Propping his chin on the stack of dishes, Seth gave an injured sniff. "Thank you, Mom . . . At least somebody loves me," he muttered pointedly as he marched out of the room.

There was a muffled whoosh as the kitchen door opened, and a minute later, Seth reappeared, stumbling over the trailing fringe of his afghan.

"F-f-freezing," he stuttered, his teeth chattering dramatically as he crouched to place a pan in front of the fire. The snow heaped inside melted rapidly, and Seth watched in consternation as a small puddle formed. "It didn't make very much water. Does that mean--?"

Ryan yawned. "Uh-huh," he confirmed drowsily. "You need to get more."

"Try not to let so much cold air in this time, son," Sandy urged.

Glaring, Seth snatched the pan and stalked out, muttering under his breath. He made three more trips before he melted enough snow to do the dishes. Then he waited in offended silence for the water to heat. When no one apologized, or even appeared to notice his righteous fury, he huffed indignantly, retrieved the pan and started out of the room, letting some water slosh out as he passed Ryan's chair.

"Wha--?" Ryan spluttered.

"Oh . . . sorry." Seth glanced back from the doorway. "Did I wake you, sleeping beauty?" Smiling disingenuously, he retreated into the kitchen, where he made as much noise as possible while he washed the dishes.

"Don't forget to rinse out the dishrag!" Kirsten called.

The kitchen door banged angrily, twice in quick succession, and a moment later, Seth bolted into the living room, dove for the couch, and wedged himself between his parents. "Bear," he gasped, waving a dripping dishrag toward the kitchen.

"What?" Sandy demanded.

Seth's head bobbed apprehensively. "I heard . . . something . . . outside the door," he panted. "Loud. Snarling and, I'm pretty sure, snuffling."

Ryan's eyes narrowed skeptically. "Snuffling?"

"You know, like . . ." Seth demonstrated, forcing air through his vibrating lips.

"Like Captain Oats?"

"You jest, R.A., but I'm telling you there were noises. Suspicious, sinister, out of-nowhere noises. I know bears can climb trees. Can they work knobs, do you think? Should we put a chair in front of the door?"

"Seth," Sandy maintained patiently, "whatever you heard, I seriously doubt that it was a bear. They hibernate in the winter."

Clutching a pillow defensively to his chest, Seth shook his head. "Maybe this one has insomnia. Or, I don't know, sleepwalks or something. Or he's skulking around just to catch innocent people off guard. Bears can be very wily, you know."

Ryan frowned. "I thought that was coyotes—the road-runner eating kind."

"Again with the lame jokes, buddy, but I'm not talking cartoons. I'm talking real, on-the-prowl beasts with claws and teeth and serious halitosis. There's a reason why they're always number one on Stephen Colbert's Threatdown, you know."

"Seth," Kirsten interrupted, "did you actually see anything outside?"

"Um . . . Well," Seth hedged, shifting uncomfortably, "seeing would require looking, so no, not exactly. But I definitely heard something. Big and beast-like and grumble-y."

Ryan stood up, still bundled in his blanket. "I'll check it out," he offered.

"Oh no you won't!" Kirsten protested. "There might actually be something out there. Sandy—"

"Stay here, Ryan," Sandy ordered. Reluctantly, he struggled out of his warm nest of blankets and grabbed the flashlight. "I'll take a look. Just to reassure Seth so he won't have nightmares tonight. Or worse, keep us all awake telling bear-attack stories."

Pacified, Seth patted his father's back. "You? Are a good father, Sanford Cohen. Forget every eyebrow joke I ever made about you. Including the totally funny one about the drunk caterpillars."

Sighing with fond exasperation, Sandy turned up his collar and headed for the kitchen. Ryan promptly followed. "We're a team," he explained when Sandy stopped, glowering.

"Fine," Sandy conceded. "But I'm the captain, so you stay behind me. And inside the cabin."

"Be careful!" Kirsten called. "Just look from the doorway, Sandy! Don't go outside!"

"Don't plan to!" Sandy yelled back.

Almost before Kirsten could begin to worry, Sandy and Ryan returned, laughing as they shook themselves, spraying snow around the room.

"So, what?" Seth prompted. "No bear?"

"Not a hair of a bear, son," Sandy answered. "But when we opened the door, there was a mini-avalanche. I guess the vibrations dislodged snow on the roof. That must have been what you heard, because it definitely made noise when it fell."

"Snarling and snuffling noises. Very bear-like," Ryan reported solemnly.

"Ha!" Seth exclaimed. "I told you! So you admit, it was a completely logical conclusion and . . ." His eyes narrowed as he noticed Ryan's furtive grin. "Okay, hold it. Are you mocking me, dude?"

"Me?" Ryan asked innocently.

"Or me?" Sandy injected, giving a deep, throaty growl as he plopped down next to Kirsten.

Flinging himself off the couch, Seth adjusted his afghan around his shoulders. "Ganging up on someone is just wrong," he announced haughtily. "Also juvenile. And now I believe I would like dessert, Mother. I was traumatized and I was mocked and I was promised dessert."

Kirsten's eyes danced. "Yes, you were. Hand me my bag, please, Seth."

"Your bag?"

"It's right by the chair."

Seth stared askance at the capacious leather purse propped against the armchair. "How did that get here?" he demanded.

"I carried it, sweetie."

With a groan, Seth hefted the bag, staggering in distress at its supposed weight. "You mean Ryan and I carried it, since we carried you," he grumbled. "No wonder you were so heavy, woman. What do you have in here anyway?"

"Dessert," Kirsten declared, taking the bag. She nestled closer to Sandy, pulled back the blanket and patted the space next to her on the couch. "Sit down, sweetie. And Ryan, you squeeze in next to Sandy. It will make it easier to share."

Frowning quizzically, Ryan glanced at Sandy. He shrugged, shifting over to make more room, and held up the blanket. "You heard the Kirsten, kiddo. Come. Sit."

When they were all settled, elbows and knees mashed together, Kirsten smoothed the blanket over their laps, beaming. "Isn't this cozy?" she observed happily.

"If by cozy you mean squashed and suffocating, then yeah, totally." Seth wriggled in his corner. "But Mom? Dessert? Remember?"

Triumphantly, Kirsten withdrew a foil-covered box from her purse. "Truffles," she announced. "Imported and incredibly delicious. They were supposed to be a honeymoon gift for Blair, kind of a joke since she always claimed chocolate was even better than . . ." Blushing, Kirsten bit back the last word. "Anyway, she won't miss them . . . Wait greedy." Slapping away Seth's eager hand, she unwrapped the paper. "You'll get your share."

"Good. Because you know, I washed dishes. Unlike certain other people, I earned dessert."

"Hey there, son," Sandy objected. "As I recall, Ryan and I found the cabin. And we tracked down the deadly snow-bear . . . Any hazelnut in there, sweetheart?"

"Mmm. I think so."

Kirsten inspected the assortment, selected a truffle for Sandy, then passed the box to Seth and Ryan. For a few minutes, there was silence in the room, broken only by murmurs of satisfaction and the distant sound of the wind blowing outside.

"This is nice," Kirsten sighed finally. "All of us here together like this." Under the blanket she squeezed Seth's hand, reaching across Sandy so she could do the same to Ryan.

"It kind of is," Seth agreed. "Now only we had a TV, because this watching a fire business? Not as fascinating as it's supposed to be."

Sandy eyed the remaining chocolates judiciously before he chose one. "We don't need a TV, Seth," he objected. "If you want to be entertained, we could always--"

"No!" Cringing, Seth covered his ears. "Not a Cohen sing-along. The American musical is dead, Dad. Let it rest in peace."

"Hey! I do not kill songs. Need I remind you what a hit I was at the Bait Shop last year?"

Kirsten giggled suddenly.

"What?" Sandy stared at her in surprise. "You didn't think I was good?"

"Oh, you were wonderful, sweetheart. I was just remembering the first time I heard you sing a show tune." Kirsten peeked at Sandy, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Now _that_ was a performance."

"Why? What happened?" Ryan asked curiously. "I mean, unless it's private--"

Kirsten laughed again. "Oh no," she replied. "Definitely not private."

"Honey," Sandy warned.

Grabbing another truffle, Seth bounced in his seat. "Go on, Mom," he urged. "Ryan should hear this story. It's a classic in the Nichol-Cohen In-Law Chronicles, dude. Kind of the prequel, you might say."

Sandy rolled his eyes, moaning good-naturedly and Ryan's lips quirked in anticipation. "So, what? Did Caleb go to see Sandy in a show or something?" he prompted.

"Or something," Seth confirmed around a mouthful of chocolate. "Mmm—raspberry . . . You tell it, Mom."

Kirsten settled herself snugly under Sandy's arm. "It was the first time I brought Sandy home to meet my parents," she began, her voice taking on a dreamy, once-upon-a-time quality. "I wanted so much for them all to get along, and my mother did take to him right away--"

Sandy inclined his head toward Ryan. "Women can't resist my natural charm," he confided. "You understand how that is."

"Okay, why didn't he say that to me?" Seth demanded, of no one in particular.

Patting her son's cheek absently, Kirsten continued. "Unfortunately, it didn't go so well with my father."

"You understand how that is too, don't you, kid?" Sandy winked, and Ryan ducked his head in wry agreement.

"That time was not my dad's fault," Kirsten objected sternly. "You were a guest in his home and you insulted him, Sandy."

"Honey." Sandy's eyes twinkled under his raised brows. "I told you, that was an accident. How could I have known that Cal would mind being called a pompous, soulless megalomaniac? Honestly, I thought that was his job title."

Kirsten swatted her husband playfully. He caught her wrist, kissed her fingertips, then tucked their clasped hands back under the blanket.

"Anyway," Kirsten said, resuming the story, "Sandy and I had a huge argument and he stormed away. It was terrible. I was sure our relationship was over."

"So was I," Sandy admitted. "For about an hour. But by then I missed Kirsten so much that I realized I'd even be willing to put up with Cal if it meant I could be with her. So I swallowed my pride and went back to the house."

"But he didn't ring the bell and apologize like a normal person." Ignoring Sandy's feigned indignation at the word 'normal', Kirsten reported, "No. He decided to serenade me."

"You mean—what?" Ryan stammered, startled. "He sang to you? Like, under your window? Do people really do that?"

Seth shook his head sardonically. "People, maybe not so much," he replied. "Dad did, though. Oh, and by the way, buddy? Not under mom's window."

Ryan's horror-struck gaze darted from Sandy to Kirsten and back again. "Not . . . Caleb's?"

Sandy nodded, abashed. "It was an honest mistake, kid," he insisted. "The damn house was huge, and I didn't know where Kirsten's room was. So I chose the one with pink curtains. It seemed like the logical choice—until Cal opened the window and started yelling. Well, cursing, to be accurate."

"I love the pink curtains part." Seth sighed blissfully as he tried to sneak another truffle out of the box. "Just the thought of grandpa going to sleep every night in a girly bedroom--"

Kirsten batted his hand away. "I've told you both, those were not curtains; they were my mother's favorite imported silk drapes. And they weren't pink either, Ryan. They were dessert sunset coral, with red and gold and purple threads woven through."

Sandy sucked a morsel of chocolate off his finger. "They looked pink to me," he insisted.

Kirsten glared with mock ferocity. Then, abruptly, she began to chuckle. "They did, didn't they?" she agreed. "My dad hated those drapes so much. I won't even tell you what he used to call the matching comforter."

"So what happened?" Ryan prompted. "Did Caleb call the cops?" Flushing slightly, he backpedaled, "Not that I think he'd do that, Kirsten--"

"Oh, he almost did," Sandy declared. "But my musical selection saved me." He cleared his throat and hummed an opening note.

Groaning, Seth slumped down on the couch. "And here comes my least-favorite part. Just spare us the actual song tonight, okay, Dad?"

"Fine. You'll get the no-soundtrack version, Ryan." Sandy glowered at Seth. "But you, my son," he complained, "are a musical Philistine."

Kirsten smiled nostalgically. "He sang 'On the Street Where You Live' from **_My Fair Lady_**," she recalled. "And he did it so beautifully that my mother wouldn't let dad stop him."

"She was bewitched by my talent," Sandy noted with satisfaction. "But don't forget, honey, Caleb himself complimented me—for the first and possibly, the only time. I think his exact words, right before he slammed the window shut, were 'At least the damn fool has decent taste in music.'" Sandy's forehead creased thoughtfully. "You know, I've always wondered what would have happened if I'd gone with my first choice—'Light My Fire.' Think there's any chance Caleb was a Doors fan?"

Ryan's slow smile broadened until he began to laugh helplessly. "That? Is a great story," he chortled. "Definitely better than most of the crap—sorry, Kirsten—the stuff on TV."

"You know, sweetheart," Sandy mused, masking a sly grin by kissing her hair. "I bet Ryan would enjoy hearing what happened the first time you met my mother."

Kirsten's face flamed and she buried it in the crook of Sandy's neck. "Sanford Cohen," she moaned. "You wouldn't."

"Oh, lady, I would. You want to hear the story don't you, Ryan?"

Ryan bit his lip. "Well," he hedged uncertainly, "if Kirsten's embarrassed--"

Seth craned to catch Ryan's eyes. "Come on, dude. Say yes," he urged. "There's no singing in this story. Only food. That Mom made. And you've eaten her cooking, so you might say she owes you."

"Kirsten?" Ryan prompted, peering at her from under his lashes.

"Fine," she sighed. "But Sandy, no exaggerating. And that goes double for you, Seth Ezekiel."

"Don't worry, honey," Sandy crooned. "We'll give Ryan the short and . . . sweet . . . version. Won't we, son?"

At the word "sweet," Seth clamped a throw pillow over his mouth, his shoulders shaking with mirth. Beside him, Kirsten sat up straight, assuming her most dignified expression even though her cheeks were still tinged a telltale pink.

"Ryan, you've met the Nana," Sandy began. "So you know she can be, shall we say, a formidable presence? Maybe a tad intimidating?"

Seth raised his hand. "Loose translation, dude: scary as hell."

"Scary as hell," Sandy conceded. "Well, Kirsten wanted to impress her, so she decided to prepare a welcome brunch all by herself." He scowled, silencing Seth, who appeared ready to interrupt. "But I'm sure everything would have been fine if my mother hadn't caught an early flight. I was still at the office, so Kirsten had to entertain her and cook at the same time."

"Which, come on, is a recipe for disaster," Seth interjected sagely. "I mean, since Mom can't really cook and breathe at the same time. By the way, you see how I did that, Ryan? Cook? Recipe for disaster? Get it?"

Ignoring Seth's comment, Kirsten shook her head. "Sophie just sat there, making these . . . disapproving . . . sounds under her breath," she said miserably. "She'd see something in the room, comment on how expensive it looked, and then make a remark about poverty or world hunger. And the whole time I was trying to make apricot kugel, all because Sandy said it was her favorite dish."

"Honey, it is." Sandy shrugged ironically. "Or it was, before . . ."

"What happened, Kirsten?" Ryan prompted, his eyes warm with sympathy. "Did you burn it?"

She shuddered. "I wish," she moaned. "Or at least I wish I had tasted the stupid stuff. But I hate apricots."

"Aw, sweetheart, the kugel looked delicious," Sandy recalled, rubbing her shoulder. "The Nana was eating a slice when I got home, Ryan, but . . . well, she had this strange, pinched look on her face and her mouth was all puckered."

"I thought it was just her natural expression!" Kirsten claimed defensively. "She had looked like that all morning. And she never said anything. She just kept eating. How was I supposed to know anything was wrong?"

Under the blanket, Seth patted her hand. "We understand, Mom. It was a natural mistake. Unlike, you know, the other one."

"Which was?" Ryan asked.

"Salt instead of sugar." Sandy's lips twitched. "I almost gagged when I tasted the stuff. How my mother choked it down, I'll never know."

"It was so awful, Ryan." Kirsten groaned. "Sophie said . . . she said, 'If that's what your wife chooses to serve me, Sanford, what should I do, spit it out? I have to be polite and eat.' What I 'choose' to serve her—as if I did it on purpose!"

Ryan sucked in his cheeks to suppress his laughter. "It's, um, easy to confuse salt and sugar," he claimed weakly. "They do look alike."

"Yeah," Seth teased. He ticked off items on his fingers. "Let's see: They're both white, small, and grainy. They're both used to flavor food. And hey, they both start with an 's.' So really, there's no difference, right, Mom?"

Kirsten arched her brows. "You know, Seth Ezekiel," she warned, "I could tell some very embarrassing stories about you."

Alarmed, Seth sat up, clasping his hands under his chin. "But you won't, will you?"

"Oh, I might."

"How about it, kid?" Sandy suggested. "Want to hear a story from the Seth Cohen Chronicles?"

Ryan's mouth curved in an impish grin. "I think I'd enjoy that," he replied.

Seth promptly pulled his afghan over his face, mumbling vague imprecations.

"Let's see, which one to choose." Sandy tapped his chin, mulling options. "Ah, I know, honey. What about the first time we hosted my mother and your parents at our place in Berkeley? Remember, when Seth was just learning to dress himself?"

"Oh, I love that story." Kirsten patted the lump of Seth's head. "You were so adorable, sweetie."

A muffled protest surfaced from beneath his blanket. "I was three! And this isn't fair!"

"Pay no attention to the voice under the cover, kid," Sandy advised. He draped a conspiratorial arm around Ryan's shoulder. "So, there we all were, having survived a very uncomfortable dinner. But we ordered in, so at least it was edible. Kirsten was going to get Seth ready for bed, but he insisted that he could do it himself."

"And I let him," Kirsten sighed ruefully. "I was afraid to leave with my father and the Nana in the same room. Besides, Seth's pajamas were right on his bed. All he had to do was change into them."

"Yeah, so what did he do?" Ryan peered curiously at the mound of buried Seth. "Put them on backwards?"

Sandy wagged his eyebrows. "He didn't put them on at all."

"What?"

"Seth came strolling downstairs, totally naked. Kirsten and I didn't see him at first. But all of a sudden, I hear Caleb snort 'What now, Sanford? You're raising my grandson to be a nudist?'"

Kirsten nodded, stifling a laugh. "And Sophie just muttered, 'Oy. California,' as if that explained everything."

"So, very calmly I asked Seth, 'Didn't you forget something, son?' And he said . . ." Sandy chuckled as the blanketed figure next to Kirsten shrank visibly. "He said, in the most horrified voice, 'Oh no! I forgot to comb my hair!'"

Glaring, Seth threw off the cover, his curls in wild disarray. "I was three!" he yelped.

"Yep," Ryan drawled. "And even then, it was all about your hair."

Incensed, Seth lobbed a throw pillow, but Ryan simply caught it and tucked it behind his head. "You know, Seth, this is what I don't get. Was putting on pajamas too complicated for you? Or did you just want to show off your--"

"Don't say it!" Seth ordered. Patting down his hair, he tried to regain his dignity. "And don't be so smug. It's your turn buddy. We've all taken a trip down Embarrassing Memory Lane. I say we hear from the Atwood side of the family."

"How about it, kid?" Sandy inquired gently. "Are there any Ryan Atwood Chronicles you'd like to share?"

Ryan's face clouded and his gaze dropped to the floor. "I don't think so," he mumbled.

"It doesn't have to be about your family, dude. Come on," Seth urged. "How about something that happened at school or around the neighborhood? Kid Chino must have had his share of adventures."

"Well," Ryan murmured, "there was that time . . ."

"Sweetie, it's okay," Kirsten assured him, as his voice faded doubtfully. "We really should get some sleep anyway."

Seth shimmied impatiently. "Oh no, Mom. No fair playing favorites. Ryan has to tell a story." Propping his chin on Kirsten's shoulder, he prompted, "There was that time that . . ."

Ryan exhaled slowly, his breath fogging in the frigid air. "All right," he conceded. "Theresa and I were in seventh-grade. She had a big test in math, and she was scared that she'd fail it and flunk the course. So, the period before, she and I, um, cut English class and sneaked into a storage closet so I could help her study."

"Ah." Seth nodded knowingly. "Right. You, Theresa, a dark closet. I like this story so far. Go on."

"We just . . . we lost track of time. The next thing we knew, the dismissal bell was ringing." Flushing, Ryan finished rapidly. "We didn't want to come out while kids were still in the halls, so we waited until it was quiet. Then we snuck out but . . . well, Ernie—the custodian—was standing right there."

"Busted," Sandy concluded sympathetically.

Ryan shrugged. "Pretty much," he admitted. "Except Ernie never even reported us. And Theresa passed her make-up exam, so . . ." Smiling, he bit his bottom lip, his gaze drifting into the past. "It actually turned out okay."

Disappointed, Seth snapped his fingers in front of Ryan's face. "That's it?" he demanded. "Didn't you forget a few important details, amigo? Like, what were you and the nubile senorita doing that made you lose track of time? Conjugating some Spanish verbs, perhaps?"

Kirsten frowned, confused. "But they were studying math, not--" She broke off, her eyes widening. "Seth Ezekiel! They were in the seventh grade! I'm sure Ryan and Theresa weren't, they weren't . . . Ryan? Were you?"

The tips of Ryan's ears blazed red. "We were studying math," he muttered. "Just not . . . all the time, that's all."

"Ahh!" Satisfied, Seth leaned back, snuggling into his corner. "_Now_ it's a good story."

"And it's the last one," Sandy announced. "Okay, boys. Time for bed—or couch in our case and in yours . . . " With a complacent grin, he pointed to the rug in front of the hearth.

"The floor?" Seth protested, as Ryan got up. "With the hard and the flat and did I mention hard? When we're already so cozy right here?" Resting his head on Kirsten's shoulder he batted his lashes beseechingly.

"Floor," Sandy repeated, blowing out the candles. "Now. So your mom can stretch out." He eased into the space Ryan vacated, disengaged Kirsten from Seth's grasp and settled her on his lap.

Reluctantly Seth slid off the couch.

"I'll stay awake to keep an eye on the fire," Sandy continued. "When I get too tired, I'll wake one of you boys to do it."

"Yay!" Seth groaned. "Something to look forward to."

Tossing him a chair cushion, Ryan placed the other one to serve as a pillow, and rolled himself in his blanket. "Goodnight," he called softly.

Seth rolled his eyes as he assembled his own improvised bed. , "Yeah," he echoed. "Night. Not so sure about the good."

Kirsten chuckled warmly. "Goodnight, boys," she answered. "Love you both. You too, sweetheart."

Seth lay down, flipped over several times, and shivered audibly. "Look at them," he hissed, nudging Ryan's side. They look warm, don't they, all cuddled together like that?"

"Don't even think about it, Seth," Ryan warned without opening his eyes.

"What?" Affronted, Seth pounded his pillow. "Fine. Be like that. But Summer would totally snuggle with me."

"Mm-hm," Ryan murmured. "Some people will do anything to keep from freezing."

"Yes, and . . . what now?"

"Seth. Go to sleep."

"People freeze to death in their sleep, you know," Seth muttered darkly. "But if you're willing to take the risk--"

"You want to talk about risk, Seth?"

"Um," Seth gulped. "Can't, Ryan. I'm sleeping."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thin, gray light was seeping through the room when a sudden knock at the door shattered the silence.

"Hello? Anybody here?"

Instantly, everyone jerked awake. Seth swiveled around from his spot guarding the fire as Sandy stumbled, bleary-eyed, to the door.

"Dad! Wait!" he cautioned. "It could be a bear. Or Oliver."

"Or help?" Ryan suggested, climbing to his feet.

"State police!" a voice called. "You folks all right in there?"

Sighing with relief, Kirsten rose stiffly from the couch, joining Sandy as he swung the door open. Seth and Ryan clustered just behind them.

"Officers! Good to see you," Sandy said. "My family got stranded here in the snowstorm last night." He blinked at the clear sky, the snowdrifts sparkling in the morning air. "I guess it's over?"

The taller patrolman nodded. "We found your car off the road. Figured whoever was driving it might have gone looking for shelter. Nobody's hurt here?"

"Not hurt. Just freezing," Seth chattered. "And hungry. Oh, and also freezing."

The second patrolman grinned. "Well then, why don't we get you folks out of here? If your car won't start, we can radio for a tow. You all ready to leave this winter paradise?"

"Oh, I think so." Sandy turned to the others, smiling. "Just let us put things back in order for the owners."

Ten minutes passed in a flurry of activity. Sandy replenished the firewood in the log rack; Seth and Ryan stored the dishes in the cupboards; Kirsten folded the blankets and fluffed the cushions. Finally, Sandy surveyed the cabin.

"It looks the way we found it," he observed judiciously. "But we did use some supplies. Kirsten do you have a pen and some paper?"

"I think so," Kirsten murmured, scrounging through her bag. Triumphantly, she pulled out a memo pad and a slim, silver pen.

Tearing off a sheet of paper, Sandy scribbled a note. "We're sorry we had to break into your cabin, but staying here may have saved our lives. It also gave us a wonderful family evening. If you're ever in Newport Beach, please call us so we can return your hospitality. The Cohen Gang."

"What do you think?" he asked the others, who had been reading as he wrote.

"Perfect, sweetheart," Kirsten proclaimed.

Satisfied, Sandy took a fifty-dollar bill and his card from his wallet. He was looking for something to anchor the stack of paper when Ryan tapped his shoulder.

"Um, Sandy? May I?" he asked, indicating the pen. "I just want to add one thing."

"Sure kiddo."

Curiously, the Cohens watched as Ryan added two words to the closing phrase. "There," he declared. "The Cohen Gang Plus One."


End file.
